


Mr. Pharmacist

by runsinthefamily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: drug dealers, poor decision making as a lifestyle choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:41:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“[Executive Producer Phil] Sgriccia reveals that they even considered taking the consequences of Sam and Dean’s financial problems further. ‘We had to figure out how they could get money when they couldn’t use credit cards anymore,’ he points out. ‘So we talked about them having scenes where they were robbing drug dealers or something, but that never came about.’”<br/>—	<br/>Supernatural: The Official Companion Season 7, by Nicholas Knight. Titan Books, 2012. (pg. 12)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Pharmacist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flutiebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/gifts).



"This is, by far, the stupidest thing we have ever done," said Dean.

"Got another idea?" asked Sam. "'We don't have time to hustle pool,' was what you said, remember?"

"Alright, alright," said Dean. He looked up at the apartment building. "Three-oh-eight, she said. Jesus, what a dump."

"If we're doing this, let's do it." Sam got out of the car, settling his gun at the small of his back.

"Goddammit," said Dean and followed him.

Three-oh-eight was at the end of the grottiest hallway Dean had ever walked down and, given the general state of the motels they stayed in, that was saying something. Someone was screaming curses behind three-oh-five, the place smelled of onion and piss, and the walls were marked with ancient water stains. It was amazing, Dean thought, looking around, just how shitty people's lives could be. Whatever else Dad had done to them, he'd never let them end up in a place like this.

Sam leaned into the door of three-oh-eight, eyes intent. After a moment, he glanced at Dean, held up two fingers, and then flicked his eyes right. Dean stacked up behind him and eased the safety off his 1911. Sam knocked.

"The fuck is it!" Male, young, overly aggressive. 

"Tammy said you, uh, said you could help me out," said Sam, managing to shed about ten years off his voice. 

" _That_ bitch," said the guy, closer now. "You best not be here for a dime bag, motherfucker, I ain't got time for no small - " Chains rattled free, the door cracked open.

Sam went in like a freight train, Dean close behind. A woman screamed. Blonde, on the couch, half naked. Sam had the dude on the ground already, gun pressed to his temple. Dean went right, cleared the kitchenette with a glance, pointed his gun at the women. 

"Shut the fuck up! We aren't going to hurt you." She clamped her mouth shut with alacrity and Dean craned his neck toward the bedroom. "Anyone else here?"

She shook her head violently.

"Where's the money?" Sam asked the dude. 

"Fuck you," the dude ground out.

"Nope," said Sam, sounding bizarrely cheerful, and leaned into the knee he had planted in the dude's kidney. "Try again."

"Jesus, jesus," the dude shouted. "In the, fuck, in the couch cushion."

"No, it isn't," said Sam, leaning harder. "Strike two." The noise the dude made was high pitched and breathless.

"Oh, god," said the woman. "It's in the toilet tank, in plastic."

"You fucking bitch," the dude gasped. "What are you telling them for?"

"I'm not getting shot over your stupid ass," she said.

"No one is shooting anyone," said Dean. "I'm gonna get that money, and then we're going to leave." He pushed open the door to the bathroom, carefully, and then went to the toilet. "Ah, christ," he said. He'd stuck his hand into sloughed shapeshifter and trawled though intestines, but there was no way he was touching this. He levered the top of the tank off with his boot and let it crash to the floor. 

"Who the fuck are you?" the dude moaned into the carpet. "Cuz I'm telling you, you are pissing in the wrong cereal."

"We're real scared," said Sam.

"Not me, you fucking dumbass," said the dude. "I got a boss. _He's_ got bosses. They're bad people. You don't wanna be doing this."

Dean came back into the room, holding the dripping ziplock out to the side. "Looks like about nine grand," he said.

"Alrighty," said Sam He promptly pistol-whipped the dude on the temple, who went limp as a noodle.

The woman let out a little, abortive shriek and then bit her lips shut again.

"You can tell his boss, and his boss's boss, that the Chicago PD says fuck you very much," said Sam, grinning at her easily.

"You ain't cops," she said.

Dean flashed her a badge. Her eyes widened. "Have a safe evening, ma'am," he said. 

They backed out into the hall, Sam shut the door behind them, and then they got the hell out of Dodge.

 

They drove south while Sam counted worn twenties and fifties, stacking them neatly and securing them with rubber bands. 

"You know, for all the laws we've broken, this is the first time I feel like a criminal," said Dean. He rolled his shoulders a little.

"We needed the cash, Dean," said Sam, not looking up. 

"Yeah," said Dean.

The silence lay heavy for a while.

"You were pretty good at it," Dean said, fifty miles later, after the money was stashed in a duffle in the back seat.

Sam shrugged.

"That wasn't the first time, was it," Dean said.

"I spent a year without my soul," said Sam. "There's not ..." He sighed. "There's not a lot of things I didn't do."

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "I wasn't complaining," he said. "Useful life skill."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, they should put it on the curriculum at Stanford." He rubbed his eyes. "Look, it isn't something I want to do regularly, or anything. I don't like it much, either. God knows Bobby would have kicked our asses if he -"

"That's not - that wasn't what I was saying," said Dean. 

"Okay," said Sam.

"What's Bobby got to do with anything?"

"Nothing."

"Bobby stole all the damn time," said Dean. 

"That's true."

"Stop patronizing me,' said Dean. He shot a glare at Sam.

"I'm agreeing," Sam protested.

"It's _how_ you're agreeing."

"Do you want to fight about it?" Sam asked. "Would that make you feel better?"

"Oh, fuck you," said Dean and punched the stereo on.

_Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap ..._

He punched it off again. "Goddamnit," he muttered.

"So we won't do it again," said Sam. "It's fine."

"Oh, now I'm too much of a pussy to go rip off drug dealers," said Dean.

"What do you want from me, Dean?" Sam twisted in his seat to face Dean fully. 

"We aren't - we don't do shit like this, and it shouldn't be so easy," said Dean. 

"For me? Or for you?" 

Dean slammed on the brakes. He muscled the Impala onto the shoulder, kicking up dust in a long plume, and then flung himself out of the car and sucked in a deep breath of night air. The other door creaked open and he shut his eyes.

For a wonder, Sam didn't say anything, only came around the car and leaned next to Dean. He smelled like sweat and weariness.

Dean opened his eyes, looked at the stars. "We're supposed to be the good guys," he said, almost without meaning to. He could feel Sam looking at him, refused to look back.

"Yeah," said Sam, finally. "Okay, yeah."


End file.
